


Like Some Kinda Walking Target

by lushlove



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushlove/pseuds/lushlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nora's made it to Goodneigbor, finally, after running halfway across a nuclear-blasted Boston and chasing down her dead husband's murderer. There she begins the journey to find her son, into the dark secrets hidden beneath the depths of the Commonwealth, with the help of a restless mayor and a grumbly merc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Goodneighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! first fic, here, had to fix a bit of it up but here we go. hopefully i get around to finishing it.

It was only ‘bout two in the morning when John managed to stagger outside for smoke break. His favourite spot was just out in the alley next to Kill or Be Killed, where he could nestle into the cool, shadowy brick wall and watch over the main square.

There wasn’t much to see tonight—his last hit of jet was still whirling around in his head, makin’ him study the slow swirl of smoke from his cigarette that curled through the nighttime beneath the glare of the streetlight—while Fahrenheit paced back and forth complaining about Bobbi or raiders or something _._

John saw her pause expectantly out of the corner of his eye, so he nodded solemnly and took another drag, tipped his hat and leaned back into the wall, closing his eyes. It was usually best to just agree. Ren had the tendency to get a little strung out by rumours and plotting and the like—it was great, that was her job. John’d probably be dead by now if she wasn’t around. But he liked gettin’ on her nerves a bit _sometimes_.

Before Fahrenheit could open her mouth to argue with him, the front gate’s door swung shut with a resounding clank. John couldn’t help but glance over to see who’d come by for a visit this time. 

He couldn’t make out the newcomer—blocked by the streetlamp—but whoever it was was getting the usual welcome from Goodneighbor’s resident asshole. He didn’t catch Finn’s greeting, with Fahrenheit grumbling next to him, but he _did_ hear the stranger’s vehement response. 

“Back off, or you’ll be the one needing insurance.” The tone was light, weirdly even. It sounded almost like a joke, but there was something else, something hard and steady in that voice.

Intrigued, John twisted ‘round to watch. Finn’s back tensed, hand twitching towards his holster as he started talking about all the big, bloody accidents that could happen in a town like Goodneighbor.

_Well now, that wouldn’t do._

Hancock could remember stepping into their makeshift square, remember saying, slow and drawn out, “woah, woah, time out.” But it wasn’t until his he had sheathed his knife, shook his head, mumblin’, “now why’d you have to go and say that, huh?”—that he could he remember actually looking up.

John rubbed the warm blood all over his hand off on the spare rag in his pocket, as his eyes followed the trail of blood leaking from Finn’s body, up the yellow outlines that hugged the newcomer’s sides, and—

Fahrenheit coughed from where she was leaned against the wall behind him. He tried not to jump. 

Hancock straightened up, asked, a little late: “You all right, sister?” 

He’d tried to make it sound reassuring, but the gravel in his throat didn’t really give him the option. It came out deep and rough, that wispy smoke trapped somewhere in his belly giving him some kind of feeling.

The stranger—well, she was wearing a vault suit. It was kind of hard to miss.

Goodneighbor saw its fair share of freaks, but John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of those. 

As he met her eyes, something tickled the back of his mind, the mention of, some kind of song on the radio, or, maybe it was a story…

Man, the jet really was taking a toll. The stranger's hair was just so incredibly distracting, blowing slightly in the light breeze, long grimy blonde waves that wisped over her shoulders, settled in little, criss-cross patterns across her chest. 

Hancock had never seen anyone with such long hair. It just wasn’t practical in the wasteland. That, coupled with her vault suit and the clunky pipboy on her wrist, must’ve made her some kinda walking target out in the Commonwealth. 

 _Or_ , a little voice added in his head, _maybe she was more like a beacon, in the waste_.

“Did you say that you’re the mayor?” she asked. And her voice—man, her voice really was that even, and determined—even though the lilt at the end of her question was raspy, almost like she needed a drink.

John couldn’t help himself, his eyes followed her wispy bangs ‘round the curve of her face, down to the pout of her mouth. Her small, thick lips were dry and pale. He watched the tip of her pink tongue dip over them, quick. 

God, this was crazy—he was turning into a full-out creep. Fahrenheit was fucking _right_. He definitely needed to cut back on the jet.

Oddly, his bodyguard chose that moment to come out of the shadowed alley. 

“That’s right,” she said, sorta stepping up in his moment of complete stupidity. John could feel her smirking behind him, probably thinking of ways to torture him in the future with a dumb impersonation. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could even see Daisy shaking her head kindly by her shop. God, he was gonna catch some kinda hell for this. 

“This is Goodneighbor, _sister_. Don’t you forget whose in charge,” Fahrenheit added, nodding rather menacingly from behind Hancock’s shoulder.

The stranger nodded tersely, her bright eyes suddenly sharp on him, and he could do nothing but stand there numbly as she made her way around Finn’s body, sprawled out on the ground, still bleeding. 

As soon as she was behind them, John turned and watched the sway of her hips, the vault suit stretched tight over her ass, as she disappeared down the alley, hair swaying as she walked.

Once she had turned the corner, Fahrenheit turned on him. “Close your mouth, dumbass,” she said. “You’d think you’d never seen a dame in your life.”

They started back towards the State House, ‘cause despite their neighbourly break, Hancock really did have shit to do. He tried to shake her off with a coarse gruff, shrugged his shoulders, slow, “she’s wearing a vault suit, a’right? It’s…strange.”

Fahrenheit held the door for him as she passed, countering, “it’s not that odd—raiders get into those oversized safe-boxes and steal that shit like that all the time.”

But John shook his head as they climbed the steps, said, “that ain’t no raider, Ren.” 

There was no way. That gal looked like—like she’d just _fallen out_ of a vault. John couldn’t really explain it, there was like a glow—her skin—and _boy, was there was meat on that woman_. She looked like she’d been eating a solid three meals everyday of her life. No one in the Commonwealth looked like that anymore. Just those sad, prewar people in the old, worn down billboards deteriorating on the sides of freeways, hanging limp off the sides of skyscrapers. 

Well, them, and some vault dwellers. 

Fahrenheit was being facetious. Sure, there were raiders that got into the vaults, but it was still a rare occasion to actually see anyone wearing a vault suit openly in the wasteland. 

Especially one that fit so well. _God_ , when she’d walked down that alley, something in the swell of her hips, the way they swayed, the lines that contoured her body… _fuckin’ jet_.

They stopped at the top of the staircase. The doors to his office were open already, a cluster of people lined up outside his office, some inside. He turned slowly to Fahrenheit and let his fingers catch on the small tin case in his pocket, adding, very late, in a light, uneven drawl, “y’know, I’ve always wanted a pipboy of my own—“

Fahrenheit caught on too fast and cut him off with a finger to his skinny chest—it _hurt_ (her fingernails were short and blunt but Fahrenheit did finger workouts, okay, she said it helped with her aim)—and said, “don’t try me with that shit, John. I saw your doe eyes—I know what this is about.” 

Hancock scoffed and let his hands fidget inside of his pockets, let his fingers snapped his tin open. She eased off as he picked out a mentat, added thoughtfully, “I guess there was something kinda different about that one. It was kinda like…”

She trailed off. 

Ren was right, there was something else that John couldn’t quite place his finger on. It wasn’t the vault suit or her body or even her hair— _okay, it was a little bit, but not entirely—_ it was partly all that strange otherworldly beauty, but it was something else, too. Something about her posture, or, maybe something about her stare…

Vault dwellers, if she was one, often didn’t carry scoped rifled strapped across their backs, or come with the outline of a combat knife fastened to their calf, encrusted in the dirty grime that was like a mercenary’s camouflage in the wasteland. They didn’t usually come wandering into Goodneighbor and step into a confrontation with someone threatening them for caps, usually didn’t look like they had somethin’ to loose—usually didn’t look so goddamned determined. 

Something about that stranger that was—

“Wild.” Hancock's neck snapped as he pocketed the case, cracked his fingers, and looked over at at Ren who was rubbing her arm, thinking still: “She looked kinda wild. Like a baby molerat —when you wound it, y’know? All pathetic and caught in the corner, but ready to bite yer fucking head off.” 

John took a strange offence to the comparison, but laughed, because he had to. (It was scratchy and low, quiet, got caught somewhere in his throat.) 

There _was_ something kind of wounded and frantic in the stranger’s eyes, but if it was pathetic it was lost in the intense perseverance of her stare, her honed attention, steadfast responses. If she was a molerat, perhaps she was the one defending her den, or maybe…

John shook his head as he followed Ren up to the door, realized he hadn’t done the stranger a just defence, but couldn’t think straight anymore. “Nah,” he grumbled in the end, “That ain’t it.”

Whatever it was, John put the stranger out of his mind with the swirl of a mentat around his mouth. There were people waiting in his office.

———

Nora wasn’t feeling too hot after she managed to swing out of the memory pod. Her legs felt shaky, the ground wobbled beneath her feet, and she could feel her head throbbing inside of her skull. Irma was there, saying, “easy, sweetheart,” a terrible scowl on her face—the situation was all too familiar. Dr Amari was there too, speaking already, asking if she was ready to talk, saying sorry for going through that _again_ , and Nora didn’t know what to say at all. 

She settled with her most used line: “I’m fine.”

When she managed to bump her way upstairs, Nick took one look at her face and suggested the bar. They walked there in silence, slow, Nick following close behind, lead her past Goodneighbor’s sleepy residents. Nora was still shaky, arms numb. It was hard to process—so much information, so much—

Shaun. He really did have Nate’s eyes. His hair was just as dark, just as straight and fine, and, god, he was _ten_ …

Nora had missed an entire decade. An entire _decade_ of his life. Her baby was—he wasn't even a baby anymore. And he had been right there, right under the fingertips—she’d been just a moment too late. _Two hundred years_! God, if only she hadn’t gone to Concord, if only she’d gone _straight_ to Diamond City, _straight_ to the stands, _straight_ to—

“Here, drink this.”

They were in a bar, somehow. Nick had placed a bottle of beer and a shot of whiskey down on the table that was now in front of her.

She grabbed the beer, quick—whiskey was never really her thing. Nate always said she got rowdy and grabby and a little too loud, and that it was unlady-like, not very motherly, and— _fuck. S_ he nearly sputtered it back up. God, she forgot how nasty the beer was, out in the wasteland.

Nora couldn’t recall how they’d gotten in. The last thing she could remember was the street, the darkened alleyways and bright neon signs, but now they were seated on a couple of couches in the back corner of a dingy, dimly lit lounge, in front of a small stage with a spotlight. Behind the bar, a Mr Handy wearing a bowler hat was serving drinks. 

Nora stopped thinking as she guzzled down her beer, eyed the whiskey as it sloshed into her empty stomach. She hesitated for a moment, then jerked her head quickly, downed the shot—not that bad, actually.

“Nora,” Nick started. _Oh god_ , now she had to talk about it. He had seen it too. He’d known, but _god_ , now he’d _seen_ , right there with her, in the vault…

“Nora, we don’t have to talk about this now.” _Thank god._ “But I just want you to know, that I’m game for a walk through the Sea.” He paused, adding, in a smart tone, “I hear the moonlight’s stunning.”

Fuck. Goddamnit—the Glowing Sea. Nora, somehow, had managed to forget about that little bit of the story.

She’d heard rumours in Diamond City, asked Hawthorne about it at the Dugout Inn. An irradiated sea of green clouds, poisonous lightening, and all the wasteland’s favourite monsters.

“I’m probably one of the only people who can handle that with you, you know, bein’ a synth, so,” Nick was grinning now, in that weird way of his where the corner of his mouth turned up slightly and his eyes stayed flat. “Whenever you’re ready, if you need the help, let me know.”

“Nick,” she tried. Her voice broke. 

“I’ve been real frank with you so far, so I’m gonna say it again.” Nick was talking slowly, watching her closely. She could tell when he did it—his eyes made little whirring noises—

“You’re not just in this for yourself, Nora,” he said. “I’ve seen you out there. I know you don’t understand this, not yet, but they just don’t make ‘em like you anymore, kid.”

Nora tried, once more, and coughed, took a long pull from her beer before speaking, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slumped in her seat. Who cared, anymore? 

“Nick, I can’t…I don’t even know where to start. Despite the radiation, I can’t ask you to risk that. Who knows what’s even in there? Probably radscorps, and deathclaws—definitely deathclaws. I can’t ask you to do that, I just can’t,” Nora’s voice cracked again. Nick procured another shot of whiskey, and she took it greedily before starting, leaning back in and resting her arms on the table. 

“People depend on you Nick. You can’t just waltz into the Glowing Sea,” she said. “Besides, Ellie would _kill_ me.” 

Nick chuckled, but Nora hadn’t even gotten to the real problem. 

She knew she had to do it, knew she had to find Shaun, and this was the only lead—after a month and a half, this was the only lead. The _only_ _fucking lead_ on that piece of shit Institute. She knew that the chances of another opportunity presenting itself would be scarce, and _despite_ all this—“I don’t know why we’re even discussing going into the Glowing Sea when I can’t afford a hazmat suit, and that power armour I’ve got back at Sanctuary is rusted to shit. What am I—how am I—”

“Hey, we can figure something out,” Nick’s voice was insistent, though his eyes were trained on bar now. He kept talking, and Nora started unconsciously carving lines into the table with her nails, trying to stop her mind from reeling. “Listen,” he said, “I think I know someone that might be able to get us the things we need, but they’re over in Diamond City. Think you’re up for the journey?”

Nora shook her head. God no, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to get up from this goddamn chair, she wasn’t ready to go to the Glowing Sea, or to see Nick’s friend, or do another one of Piper’s fucking interviews, and she sure as hell wasn’t ready to take on the goddamn Institute. Fuck.

She could feel the weight of her limbs, the strain of her shoulders where her pack had dug in, heavy on her back all day. She hadn’t slept at all since they talked to Piper after getting back from Fort Hagen. In fact, she hadn’t slept over four hours since they broke into Kellogg’s shack up in the stands, since they hunted that bastard down and shot him like the fucking animal he was, since Dr Amari showed her the—since Kellogg killed—

“Hey, it’s all right kid. Drink up.”

Nora shook herself, obliged, took another careful sip of her beer. 

Nick got her talking nonsense in the quiet clutter of glass against glass and rough voices, started by telling her about Whitechapel Charlie, the bartender, and his strange dealings under the counter.

Nora took the bait—needed the distraction—filled him in on Vadim’s bar fight plan and Travis’s great adventure, and how she came up with that whole sham about “the quarry with Lily June on the rocks.” Nick kind of had to explain the story behind Skinny Malone and his gang after that, and they spent a good minute chuckling trying to figure it out. It made for other conversation on the state and history of Diamond City, the years Nick spent lurking in the Commonwealth after he woke up in a dumpster. Somewhere in there, against Nora’s silent pleading, conveyed entirely through her eyes, Nick ordered her another beer—and got into a pretty heated verbal argument with Charlie, too.

Eventually Nora noted that it was nearly five in the morning. It was hard to believe—the whole week had been a blur. They’d left to find Kellogg in the night nearly three days ago. But it didn’t seem that late in the bar; there were extra chairs set up around the tables, packed with drifters, merchants, and mercs in low conversations. The music had grown steadily louder over the speakers, soft and crackly at the same time. People were milling about the room, leaning against the walls. 

There was space left on the couch next to her, and next to Nick as well—but people deliberately walked around their little corner as they passed with drinks. Nora didn’t understand, even the bar was packed with people. As she swept a glance over it, curious to see if something was going on, she thought she saw a familiar pointed hat and red coat—

“Listen, I’m gonna head back to my office and see what I can pick up,” Nick was saying, getting up from his chair. “I’m sure I heard someone in the upper stands talking about a chem lab, and I’ll bet my buck I can find some hazmat suits wrapped up in there.”

Nick was standing now, and Nora was reminded of his ability to just be _on_ all the goddamn time—literally. She was fucking exhausted. Was it possible to go synth? Maybe then she’d be able to fucking do all the shit she had to do and get her baby, her boy, _Shaun_ —

“There’ll be an in somewhere, Nora—don’t worry.” Nick placed a hand on her shoulder, looking down at her now. “You get some sleep, alright? The Hotel Rexford is just next to the Memory Den—I’ll get you a room, leave the key at the desk. All you gotta do is get yourself up there—okay?”

“Hotel. Got it,” she nodded, felt her head get fuzzy, the noise in the room lull.

“Okay,” Nick said, but it was slightly muffled already. 

And then, strangely, he winked. It was so unnatural that Nora took immediate notice—the little circular receptor went out for a flicker of a moment, and she nearly shivered. 

“I’ll see what I can dig up for our intrepid survivor. Be seein’ you in a few.” With a light pat on her shoulder, Nick’s whirs and clinks slipped awat in between the tables, towards the stairs.

Nora fell back against the couch. She was glad to be alone. Or was she? The ground was still moving beneath her. Or was that new? Either way it didn’t matter, because when she leaned her head back and closed her eyes—because the dimmed lights kind of asked for it—it really did feel like her head was swimming, just swirling around and around and around, with images of Kellogg’s brain blown out the back of his head, and the sign from Nick’s agency…her old house back at Sanctuary, Shaun, in his crib…even Mama Murphy’s voice was swirling about in there, saying something she’d said before back at Sanctuary…at Sanctuary… _Sanctuary_ …

A soft, sultry voice was singing the word, low into a microphone. Nora blinked her eyes open, chanced a glance around the room, making sure to crack her neck, and saw the darkened tables, heard the low hum of patrons in conversation. 

Charlie was still whizzing about behind the bar, but the set up on the shabby little stage in the corner was now occupied by a woman in a glittery red dress.

Nora’s eyes were still glassy and her ears a little fuzzy—but surprisingly, she didn’t feel like throwing up. She took another drink from her beer, now lukewarm on the table, condensation just a light circle on the table, and grimaced.

For the second time that night, a hand set down a glass on the table, interrupting her thoughts. But this time, it was a glass of whiskey (and a whole bottle, too)—and the hand was definitely not Nick Valentine’s.

Nora stared. The bottle had been clunked down unceremoniously onto the table as the person attached to the hand thumped onto the seat across from her. Her eyes were still processing the bottle, but the man was close enough that Nora could smell the smoke on his breath, could feel the brush of his knee against her thigh. 

His hand pushed the glass towards Nora, where it came into focus—a sort of mottled flesh that used to be smooth, pale skin, and was now roughened, but not raw. A ghoul's hand. 

Nora squinted, could see scarred over musculature peeking through some gaps in the skin. It looked tender, and strong, kind of soft and—

The hand retracted, and her eyes followed its path, up a torso clad in a ruffled white shirt collar and a blood red coat. The hat on the man’s head obscured his face in shadow, but Nora could see the pointed ridges of his cheekbones, the sharp incline of his jaw, highlighted by the dimmed candlelight.

It was that man—the mayor—the one from before, the one who had—

“You’re in my spot, dollface.”


	2. A Pleasant Evening at the Third Rail (Or, A Sanctuary of its Own Kind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you may have noticed that some elements of the story have been changed, just for a smoother process. i dunno. we'll see how it works out.

“You’re in my spot, dollface.” 

_“You’re in my spot”—really? That’s the best you could come up with? “Dollface?” REALLY?_

John growled quietly in his throat, internally smacked himself in the head. He wasn’t a child for fuck’s sake, he was the Mayor of Goodneighbor (of the people, for the people, thank you very much), and a grown ass man. Thank god Fahrenheit wasn’t there to see it.

He had no idea what to say, but knew that he had to say something else, because a) that was terrible, and b) after listening in on that conversation like a giant creep while he mingled by the bar, John knew that this woman clearly deserved a drink. If Valentine was even thinkin’ of risking the Glowing Sea for this broad...well, she must be some kinda wonderful.

John hadn’t expected her to notice him, really. When he’d walked over, her brow had been scrunched into a furl of confusion, and her eyes had glazed listlessly over the room. Honestly he hadn’t even planned on bothering the stranger at all, but when Valentine had left her there in John’s own private, cordoned off section, in _his_ bar—well, she’d looked a bit lost. 

Hancock had watched her as he approached, the strange look in her eyes. Even despite of the deep sense of longing and loss about her, there was something still strong and resolute—her jaw was set in a clenched ridge and a leather chestpiece rested comfortably across her torso, attached arm braces looking as though they’d been crusted onto her body by dirt, blood, and grime. There was a rifle propped up against her leg as if ready for use at any moment, and he wished he could focus on the fierce look in her eyes, the piercing look she sent him once she realized who—no, what it was that sat down beside her—

But John couldn’t stop glancing back at her mouth, glistening with the moisture of a sloshed, ancient ale. Now, it moved, lips parting to form a question—

"Your spot?" came her voice, solid. Hancock nearly missed it, but she managed to cut in over his internal monologue, the one shouting obscenities at himself. She wasn’t looking at his eyes, but tracing the scars on his face—John couldn’t blame her, extended eye contact with a ghoul ain’t for the faint of heart—and he took the opportunity to watch her long, pale fingers as she unconsciously fiddled with the label on her warm beer.

“Yeah—I mean, it’s…” he trailed off, unsure of exactly where he thought that would go. _This is my VIP section, look at my status and power?_ That didn't really seem like this gal's style. His eyes slipped from her face as he thought of something to say, glanced down at the zipper of her vault suit that had creeped open, left a dark shadow between her pale breasts. 

John averted his eyes, quick. “It ain’t a problem," he said, pushing the untouched glass towards her, taking care not to touch her hand with his. Hell, some smoothskins were easily repulsed by his ugly mug, let alone by touching his rotten, roughened skin with theirs.

He said the only thing he could think of, the question he really needed answered to stop feeling like such a fucking creep—fuck, he hadn’t even taken a hit of jet recently, but goddamn this weird slowness was a sign of addiction if there ever was one—

His voice was a rough rumble when he asked, “what’s your name, sister?”

The stranger slid the glass into her palm, pressed her hand firmly into the cool glass and then to her forehead. Little beaded droplets were beginning to slip from her temples, matting the hair by her hairline. She sighed. ”It’s Nora."

Nora. 

Nora tipped her head back as she drank from the glass, throat working in gulps, and set it back down on the table, ice clinking. A lock of hair swished over her shoulder and her long, wispy bangs parted over her forehead. Her lips were flushed now, a rosy red to match her cheeks and the tip of her nose—probably from the drinks she’d shared with Valentine. 

Hancock’s fingers twitched. 

Magnolia sang softly in the background. 

"Look," John started, unsure at first with where he was going but knowing that he needed to say something, anything—and Nora poured herself another finger of whiskey. "I'm real sorry about that whole thing with Finn back there, I knew he was getting out of hand, should’ve had it taken care of sooner.“

"It's okay," she said, “I can handle myself.”

She hadn’t said it with malice or pride—just, said it—but Hancock couldn’t help glancing at her pack, the knife strapped to her thigh and the rifle resting by her side. Her left leg was entirely encased in heavy leather armour.  

He couldn’t keep the grin from his mouth, couldn’t stop himself from drawling, “I don’t doubt it, sister.” 

John had mentioned over to Chuck for a glass of his own before Nora raised her head, met his eyes in hers. It was hard to look away, the way her emerald stare bore into his, blinking softly and slowly, and— _hell he needed that drink_.

Good ol’ Chuck clanked his way over and set the glass down without a word. Hancock broke eye contact to pour himself a drink, heard his stupid mouth spout the usual line—he’d just gotten off work, for fuck’s sake, was still caught in that dictatorial shit—

“I just want to make one thing clear,” he paused, mostly for dramatic effect, ‘cause the crowd tended to like that—and happened to make eye contact with the stranger—with Nora, again. Her stare was intent, watching for his reactions, his tells. John lowered his voice, made sure it came out nice and straight, so she got the idea: “Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people, you feel me? We ain’t like McDonough over at Diamond City, or your buddies in 81. Everyone’s welcome here.”

Nora nodded, her jaw set. “Duly noted.”

Hancock tipped his hat and took a drink, watched this woman over the rim of his glass. She was looking down at her own beverage, swirling the ice around the bottom of the glass, with a thoughtful pout.

John had been looking forward to coming down into this little den of his, to relaxing in the dank darkness of the Rail after a long evening of tact, settlements and resolutions. Here, everyone mostly left him to his own devices—especially at this time, when they knew he’d been working and it was just a bunch of other freaks looking for solace in Magnolia’s mesmerizing performance. 

But Hancock certainly hadn’t expected to see this oddly mysterious and refined (and beautiful—okay, she was beautiful, fuck you Fahrenheit, he could still _see_ through these saucers—) stranger in his favourite seat, staring into space like she really needed something. Something like a distraction. 

Hancock was good at distractions.

He leaned back into his chair and draped an arm over the back of it, made some quip about the beer. Nora let out a small, startled laugh and looked up at him, surprised, took another drink.

Hancock mentioned the plan he’d heard about finding that Drinkin’ Buddy for the Rexford, mostly just for something to say. But Nora looked intrigued and asked what it was, said she missed the cool taste of a freshly poured draft—said it’d be worth it to find that robot if only for that small pleasure. Hancock had no idea what fresh beer tasted like, wondered briefly where or how she’d tried it (the vault? Did they have that kind of stuff?), and noted her interest in the job. 

They nearly got distracted by the topic of vice, swapping stories about barely-remembered nights, but Nora cut herself off abruptly when she said something about a ‘dorm,’ and her roommate, and her eyes fluttered shut, a breath puffing out in frustration, brow creased.

“Y’know,” Hancock began, voice scratchy. He lit a cig, exhaled long and deep, and when he glanced back at her, Nora looked rather relieved. She took another pull from her drink. 

“If you’re looking for work,” he said, “I’ve got reconnaissance needs. You _look_ like you can handle it, but I’m warning you, I’ve already sent a couple of teams up there and there’s been no good news.”

Nora perked up and leaned in, pressing her breasts against her arm where it rested against the table. “What’s the job?”

John couldn’t help it—he moved in closer too, leaned into his arms on the table, and felt his knee brush the side of her thigh where it was warm and soft—heard his voice drop lower, heartbeat kicking in his chest. Her breath smelt like peppermint.

His mouth was dry. 

“There’s some talk coming in about some place called the Pickman Gallery,” his voice lowered, “I don’t want a look-see now, I’m missing men and I want come concrete answers—find out what the hell is going on up there.”

Nora nodded again, with a bit more conviction then before, and John noticed her flushed cheeks as she took another drink. “Pickman Gallery. I’ve seen the calling cards. Seems like a creep, but I’ll check it out.” She looked down, made a note in her pipboy, shifted her own leg where it was pressed against the table leg and bumped Hancock’s. He watched, couldn’t help leaning in closer when the screen flooded her face with a low ethereal green light as she fiddled with the knob.

The room was very quiet now—only Magnolia’s deep crooning voice floated over the murmuring, but even that was muffled in Hancock’s ears, like 200 year old radiation dust that hung hazy in the air. Time seemed to slow down as Nora lifted her head slightly, just enough to look John in the eyes, lashes long. They were so close now, the light of her pipboy blew out part of his vision—but in a sudden moment, in turned off, and everything came into a sharp focus under the lamplights, sorta like a nice hit of jet. Now, he could see all the hues of green and the speckles of brown in her eyes—the light dusty freckles on her cheeks in exquisite detail, and the tiny, faded scar on her chin. He could even hear the puff of her breath before she parted her lips to speak, lids fluttering closed as she blinked. 

But Magnolia had seemingly finished her song and sauntered off stage towards them, was already making a grab for Hancock’s drink where it rested by his elbow and leaning into his back, jostling his shoulders and his arms off the table. He managed to catch himself by his knees before he fell completely off the chair, and Mags drawled, “Hey, doll,” low and sultry between small sips of his drink, “Who’s the new gal?”

John sighed, annoyed. Magnolia could be a ball when she felt like it but other times…well, she may not know how to handle a gun but she sure as hell had a way with body language. Nora had apparently gotten some kind of message, as she’d already shifted back to sit straight against her chair—his chair, really—feet pressed to the ground, ready to leave if need be. “Mags, Nora; Nora, Magnolia, our resident songstress here at the Third Rail.”

Nora smiled slightly, tipped her head towards Magnolia, but oddly the singer didn’t seem interested in playing nice tonight, because before even taking a proper look at Nora she said, “Check out the suit,” with that snide grin of hers. 

She looked down at Nora from her own perch on John’s armrest before asking, drawn out and uninterested, “What’d you do, escape from the safe? Or did ya have to put a bullet in one of those vaulties for the wristwatch?”

Those were obviously the wrong questions to ask because Nora recoiled immediately. Her lips pressed into a stern, flat line and her chair scraped across the floor as she pushed back with her legs, stood up with rigid arms, palms pressed flat on the table.

“Excuse me,” she said curtly, and Hancock watched her stumble between the patrons and their tables, feel against the wall with one hand while she hunched over and surreptitiously clutched her midsection with the other. She made it to the washrooms and disappeared behind the door as it clanged shut.

Hancock didn’t think he needed to know the answers to those questions.

———

Nora clawed at the edges of the toilet seat with just the tips of her fingers. Her arms felt weak, hung loosely around her head as she heaved. God, she was angry at herself, for letting this happen, for letting it get to her. 

The problem was that all this—it wasn’t a part of her past, it was her present. Reliving that day in the vault was—was—it was awful, but it was a reminder, a push. Nora was starting to realize that finding Shaun meant pressing deep into those fresh, raw wounds, to keep going, keep on. She needed to know where, and _why_ and just _—_

Nora tried thinking of something else. Anything.

It was the mayor that first came to mind. His bright red frock and tricorn hat—the outfit choice had honestly thrown Nora off, but she figured there were crazier things to wear in the Commonwealth. It made sense, in a way, the old revolutionary’s outfit getting its chance to be noble again—albeit in the hands of a very different kind of scoundrel. 

There was something about that man, that just—that was just—soothing. Everything about him, from the way he moved to the way he looked at you with those big, black eyes. Even his voice was a deep and rough rumble, a relaxed and unhurried drawl that calmed her. 

He was someone outside of all the pain that Nora had stored up inside of her, someone who didn’t know what her fucked up story was, who wasn’t asking for long-winded favours or trying to sell something, wasn’t trying to pry into the details of her life. He was just…there. Offering company, offering something outside of this fucked up mess. 

Nora didn’t want to be caught off guard. But she’d let it happen, let herself ease into that simple, sweet kind of refuge of companionship—and all that pain that Nora had been suppressing came rushing to her ears as soon as that woman had said—had reminded her of—of—

Nora heaved again. There was really nothing coming up—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and even the alcohol seemed to have just soaked into her famished body. There was just the spit around her mouth, the sloppy bits of saliva that had sputtered out of her when she lurched into the washroom, and dried tears on her cheeks. Her stomach gurgled, and she hiccuped. God, she needed a fucking break.

The door to the washroom swung open, and she heard the steady clunk of footsteps against the cold tile echo in the tiny room. 

“Uh, Nora?” came a familiar gruff, but uncertain, voice. She tried not to whimper, tried not to let the whine escape her throat, the sound of her name in his voice like a warm cloth to her forehead.

Nora heard his boots shuffling by the sinks, a heavy bag clump on the floor, and then a few steps that came to a halt just outside the stall she was slumped in, curled around the toilet. 

There was no door—Nora could feel his shadow over her body, and she rubbed her mouth on the dry shoulder of her vault suit, pushed back to lean against the toilet seat on her elbows, squinted into the fluorescent light when Hancock dropped onto his knees beside her.

“Hey, doll,” he said, “you’re all right.”

Nora managed to huff out a laugh. She’d never known a city official that would get down on a washroom floor to console a pathetically disoriented stranger. But this was a different world than the one she’d come from, and she was still trying to come to terms with that—with the kindness and the cruelty, coming from different angles at all times. “I’m sorry,” she croaked into the bowl, voice coarse, “it’s been—it’s been a rough day.”

Hancock hummed, though it rumbled deep in his throat and sounded far more like a low growl. Nora wanted to rest her head against his chest, feel him buzz beneath her cheek. 

She could almost feel it through the warm space between his chest and her back when he said, breath puffing over her neck, “You got nothin’ to be sorry for. Happens to the best of us.” 

It seemed like he was tempted to pat Nora on the back, hands that hovered and brushed against her shoulder a couple times. Eventually, they settled on this thighs.

Nora sighed, tried wiping the stringy wisps of hair that had curled around her neck out of the way and gave up after a moment, shifted to lean her head back against the stall. Their knees brushed.

She looked at Hancock through hooded lids and wet lashes, caught those black, black eyes in hers. “It just—it hurts, y’know?”

Nora watched as his irises jumped back and forth between her own blown out pupils, searching perhaps, for the right thing to say. They strayed to the exposed line of her neck, where she felt sweaty and damp, where wet, greasy ropes of her hair had stuck to her chest, made circles on her skin. She watched the line of his throat work as he swallowed. 

“Well,” he met her eyes again, just as she averted her own gaze to his hat, took note of all the nicks—“guess you came to the right place, sister. Goodneighbor ain’t for the faint of heart but we got anything you need to help ease the pain.”

“Chems, you mean.” Nora was pretty new to the wasteland but she knew about the drugs. They were scattered all over the Commonwealth—in garbage bins, desks, and random boxes—and they sold well in exchange for other goods. Preston and Trudy at the Drumlin Diner hated them, which was to be expected, and Mama Murphy was just _weird_ , but that was the extent of Nora’s research. She’d had other pressing problems to worry about.

“And other pleasures,” Hancock replied easily. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he smirked, but it was weird—he was being very careful not to touch her, Nora could tell, though she had no idea why. He’d done it at the table too, when neither of them seemed able of looking the other in the eye—only now, at least, they were too close not to. 

He was trying to shift his legs away from her knees where they were slipping against the tile, and he continued in that low rough drawl of his, saying, “We’ve got ‘em all here—freaks, misfits and troublemakers. Everyone here lives their own life, their own way. No judgements.”

Nora hummed. 

A sanctuary of its own kind. 

It certainly was different than her first impression of the town. Nick hadn’t exactly espoused the  virtues of Goodneighbor, and her welcome wasn’t really the most ideal—a little bloodier than Diamond City’s, but, more straightforward. Nora didn’t get the impression their mayor was a liar or a cheat, or that he was hiding anything nefarious. It had to be those eyes, those large dark eyes, so full of, of earnestness, or…something. 

Another song started up out in the bar, jazzy notes that spiked high and low, and Nora felt her heart stutter, shook her head, broke eye contact.

She felt like a damsel. 

She hated it.

“What’s your real name?” she asked, looking at his boots—couldn’t help it, sitting there on the washroom floor with nothing left to hide but her motivations. 

“John,” he said, and Nora couldn’t help but laugh. He grinned in response, “No, really, I know it’s hard to believe—”

“I believe you,” she cut in, quiet. She shouldn’t, not in this time or world, maybe not even in this town, yet—“I believe you,” she said again, softer, to herself. 

They sat for another moment, listened to the clatter of glass falling to the ground, someone yelling at someone else, until Hancock said, “Come on, doll, lets get you outta here.”

Nora nodded, grasped the wall with weak hands and tried to move her shaky legs. John was already standing, hovering over her with unsure hands again, and she thought _fuck it_ before grabbing one, pulling herself up with the other on his shoulder. 

She staggered on numb legs. When she looked up, Hancock’s eyes were wide in front of her, and if he’d had a nose Nora’s would have been pressing against it. She couldn’t help tilting her head, following the marks of his skin with her eyes until they caught on his mouth, where the scarred over tissue looked soft and pliable, wondered if she traced her fingers over his lips, if she touched the patch of his cheek with her palm and leaned just a little closer…

John coughed. The hand caught in hers was clenching, hot and sweaty, and Nora let go, pulled back, stumbled. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, almost exactly where Nick’s cool hand had pressed earlier—but John’s hand was hot, left little indentations on her suit, where his fingers pressed into her skin.

Nora nearly laughed again. Nate was right about the whiskey after all.

She managed to find some purified water in her pack (but not the fresh toothpaste she’d managed to buy in Vault 81), swirled it around in her mouth, spit into the sink. Hancock hauled the strap of her pack over his shoulder and they made it out the washroom, past the brawl by the bar, over to the bottom of the staircase. Nora could feel eyes on her back as John and her shared a look, laughed at Charlie’s threats—and it took them a good while of maneuvering arms over and under shoulders in order to start the climb. 

Her mind wandered. Was it terrible of her to want this man? This strange, strange man, who was offering kindness and conversation and just a little help in a fucked up world? Was it terrible, to wake up from 200 years of sleep, to a dead husband and your baby stolen, and to still _want—_ to still want so badly, someone that was really hers, someone she could actually choose and _keep_ and _fuck_ —

Nora stumbled over the last step just before the first landing, just about slammed her head into the wall, but Hancock’s arm slid down to her waist, gripped her tightly against his hip. He was thin, but wiry—slim hips and lean muscle—and his arms were strong and stable. Nora’s own arm had slipped ‘round his neck and she held him in the crook of her elbow.

She was too tired to care about his pervious aversion to touch, too tired to lug her own body up these goddam stairs. But John didn’t _seem_ to care all of a sudden, wasn’t grunting—though Nora could feel the tense muscles in his arms and his back as he helped her drag her feet up the staircase, out the door.

The air outside hit her like a fresh wave of water, cool and light against her damp skin. She heard the metal door clang shut as the breeze got up under her hair, breathed a crisp puff of wind on the back of her hot neck, and Nora sighed, rested her head against Hancock’s shoulder, arm limp around his neck.

They made it around the corner when Nora fell sideways, used her weight to stagger over to the small crook of space by the State House’s side door, pulling Hancock with her as support. He shouted a “hey!” and laughed in a low grumble.

“I just need a minute, out here,” Nora mumbled, leaning against the cool brick.

John’s his hat came askew as Nora’s head tipped back against the wall, and he caught the light of a small bead of sweat slip down her neck, watched it drop between her breasts, saw it leave a light moist trail that flickered in the lamplight. He swallowed thickly, let Nora’s bag fall to the ground, and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket with the hand that wasn’t curled around Nora’s waist, arm trapped between her back and the wall.

He nudged a cigarette out of the pack, plucked it with his teeth and switched the pack for a lighter, inhaled deep and long.


	3. Making Good Friends in Goodneighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sincerely apologize for letting this go! i've been playing a lot of fo4 to get through school, so hopefully i'll get through this over the holidays. sorry this one is so short! thought it's better than nothing :P

God damn, he had to get that light fixed.

Hancock took another drag and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth, away from where Nora was slumped between him and a brick wall. He leaned into the warmth between them, let gravity do the hard work and settled in to wait for Nora to take her moment—couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather do.

John didn’t get moments like these. Well, he got something similar, but it wasn’t the same deal. Those times—the times he did get to stand against a cool solid wall in the dimmed streets of Goodneighbor, quiet in contemplation—he was alone.

Now, most of the residents of Goodneighbor were still asleep in their dugouts and makeshift beds. A couple of drifters by the cooking pot on the other side of the square quietly mumbled to themselves as the sky began to lighten, slowly. John watched the thin slip of pink creep into the horizon, a lazy, lazy morning. 

Nora and him were hidden, barely, in the shadow of the State House’s portico. He could hear the distant sound of gunfire, way beyond the buildings surrounding their makeshift walls, wondered who was going at it this time. Was glad, and then kind of angry, at the luxury of not having to worry. 

The smashed lightbulb over the door blinked dimly in the dawn and the Rexford’s neon sign cast a red glow over the street. John patted down the pocket on his chest with his one hand, cigarette dangling where it was caught between his teeth, poked at his pant pocket next, searching for that small tin case.

It wasn’t much, Goodneighbor. They didn’t have a schoolhouse for families or a set of upper stands for any rich folk like Diamond City did, or a thriving market like Bunker Hill—but it was safe for those who needed it. Well, for the most part. Hancock was trying to keep it that way, at least.

John’s fingers circled ‘round the cool tin in his pocket. 

Nora exhaled next to him, straightened her back against the brick and blinked, slowly. They heard someone shuffle in their sleeping bag, the change of guard by the back gate, watched the new guy stretch in his seat by the wall and flip, slow, through a roll of paper.

“Pretty nice thing you’ve got goin’ here, John,” Nora mumbled, a teasing lilt to her tone. It was the way she said his name, in a low, smooth breath, that got Hancock’s heart stuttering.

“Thanks, doll,” he managed, “I try.”

Nora lolled her head to the side, and he felt her gaze sweep over the side of his face, still half-hidden in the shadow of his tricorn hat, tipped low over his eyes. 

John popped open the tin in his free hand and slipped a grape-flavoured mentat into his mouth, felt her gaze drop from his mouth to the bob of his adam’s apple when he swallowed. He hesitated, unsure if he should offer—

“So what’s your story?” she asked, whisper-quiet. “If you don’t mind, y’know, telling.”

He didn’t. 

It was probably the mentat— _yup, blame it on the drugs_ —but Hancock got talking quicker than ever before. But John had never had any reservations about telling his tale. Ren did always say he was his own favourite subject. 

He told her about Vic and the day he woke up in front of the State House’s display, the drifters that helped him take Goodneighbor back from those rfucken’ animals, and his inaugural address. Nora was quiet, listened intently, asked simple questions and watched the side of his face as he talked. He brought his forgotten cigarette up for a deep breath.

“That’s a…pretty bloody past,” she got out, shifting her head, temple pressed to the brick.

“I did what had to be done,” he said, and turned his head slightly to see her expression. Nora’s eyes were hooded, dark, and her bottom lip was red from where her teeth bit into it. Hancock’s gaze lingered there, stuck on the plump flesh, as he continued. “Once, I would’ve been afraid to stand up for what I thought was right. But those clothes… _spoke_ to me, told me what I needed to do. They remind me, still, to never stand by and watch. Ever again.”

His throat was thick by the end of his little speech, gravelly and low in the dark. 

Nora coughed, dry and sudden, almost as if she was choking, and John turned towards her. Then, she said his name, low,

———

“John,” she said, had to make sure he’d listen, because she was not gonna talk about it again anytime soon, not after this day.

A hum rumbled low in his throat, and she felt more than saw the pitch black of his eyes meet hers, his shadowed face coming into focus the closer he—she? They?—moved. God he was so—“I,” her throat croaked, loud in the hazy still streets of Goodneighbor.

Hancock shifted his head to take a drag of his shortened cig. The streetlamp cast deep shadows over the deep hollows of his eyes and the sharp ridge of his cheekbones under the brim of his hat, but Nora could still feel his eyes skirt back to hers when she said, again, 

“I…”

He was so close, their hands were brushing by his side, and her eyes bore into his when his name slipped from her lips, sort of desperately, sort of by accident—“John _—_ ”

She couldn’t hold it back anymore— felt the words bubbling in her throat, felt a deep throb in her belly as she looked into his eyes. John was, he was…“ _John_ ,”

 _God_ , he was more than she could’ve hoped for.

She grasped the edge of his coat with the hand that wasn’t hanging off the side of his shoulder, saw the little light of his cigarette fall to the ground. His eyes were sharp on her, worried, and he angled his body against the wall to face her fully, arm suddenly tight around her waist. Nora watched his face, wondered what the press of her palm against his cheek would feel like, wanted to trace the scars around his mouth with her fingers, press kisses into the dark bags under his eyes—

Before she realized it her hand was already there, on the rugged, warm skin over his cheekbone, thumb sweeping over the skin around his mouth.

Nora wet her lips, stuttered, “John, I—I’m sorry, I just—I just want—” God, she didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted to forget, she wanted to move on. She wanted to find something beautiful in this twisted, fucked up world, and even though she'd only just met the man, just saw him knife a guy in the gut just a few hours ago, right in front of her—there was something about him that was so, so—so lovely, so—

“Hey,” he crooned, and his eyes widened, gleamed in the dark.

Nora shook her head, shuffled closer, dropped her hand from his face, let it get caught in the opening of his shirt. She couldn’t tell Hancock that she thought he was _lovely_ , he’d probably be offended. 

Nora let the back of her hand rub against John's chest, almost absentmindedly, as she tried to think of something quick to say, enjoyed the warmth that spread under her skin. “John, I—I need— _oh_ ,” 

In the end, she didn’t have to say anything. Hancock growled low in his throat and was quite suddenly crowded up against her, pushed her back into the hard brick as his arms curled ‘round her waist, her back, as he groaned wet into her hair. Nora gasped and splayed her hand flat against his chest, felt the ridges of his skin beneath her fingers. John moaned gruffly as she tightened the arm around his neck. 

His hands moved to skim over the sides of her body, settled over the swell of her ass where he squeezed, rough, pulled her hips into the thigh pressed between her legs, and _god_ , no one had touched her like this since—since—

 _Fuck_ , it was just what she needed. Her mind cleared almost instantly, focused entirely on the feel of him, of this strange, strange man who had a whole town and the best intentions, who—

“ _Oh,_ ” she groaned this time, as he pushed into the space between her thighs again. Hancock nuzzled his face into her neck, started nipping lightly at the skin of her collarbones, her throat, jaw, stopping to lick at the sweet little spots that made her shudder in his arms. He smelled husky, like tobacco and smoke and nighttime–where Nora rested her head on his shoulder, tipped her face into the crook of his neck and breathed into the collar of his coat.

She felt his hat shift where it hung off the back of his head—nudged his ear with her lips and breathed hot down his neck—watched it fall to the ground.

Nora slipped a hand between their bodies, managed to grab the little zip of her vault suit and start easing it down, but she only made it past her breasts before her fingers got caught in the slip between Hancock’s shirt buttons—before she got distracted by the feel of John’s chest beneath her palm, again. His skin was tender and calloused, a delicious roughness that characterized the man so well. 

John grumbled low in his throat, sucked at the corner of her jaw, hands clenching on her hips, fingers digging into her ass. _Fuck_ —John’s thigh was, was rubbing into the heat between her own, and Nora needed to touch, needed to _feel_ —

Just as her hand slipped up beneath his coat, hiking up the vest and linen shirt he wore underneath, getting one smooth sweep of her hand across the width of his shoulders—Hancock grunted and leaned back. He grabbed at her wrists and held them tight against her belly, swooped in to press fervent kisses just at the hollow of her throat. It was Nora’s turn to groan. She pushed her head back against the wall, let her chest arch towards his mouth. Nora tried desperately to get her hands free.

“ _Goddamnit_ , John,” she breathed, “kiss me.”

His eyes fluttered open as he jerked back, and Hancock released her wrists suddenly as his eyes moved up over the exposed part of her belly where the vault suit had creeped open, over her heaving chest, to her face.

His throat worked as he swallowed, and he seemed to shudder as he closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. 

John glanced back up at her eyes, where she was watching him intently, and he seemed to still for a moment, caught.

But Nora was impatient. She started twisting her hands where they were still stuck in his grip, grasped his shirt with her fingers, started pulling at the buttons. And Hancock pulled back further, let go, braced himself against the wall with his palms flat against the brick, dropped his head between his arms.

“Nora,” he started, with a gruff, throaty voice, and with a sudden swoop in her gut Nora knew where this was going.

“I understand,” she said, perhaps a bit too loud in the silent street—she didn’t want to hear the excuse. It all happened fast, real fast, she got it— for the mayor of a settlement, it was probably a bad idea to get involved with any random tourist. Especially in public, especially with her, a fresh-out-the-vault, fucked up mother-bent-on-revenge from the wasteland.

John looked back up at her, searching for Nora’s eyes, but she was already zipping her suit back up. She leaned down carefully, pulled the strap of her pack over her shoulder and grabbed John’s hat from where it had fallen just next to his boots. His arms were limp by his sides when Nora shoved the hat into his chest, unwilling to stand around in the dank night making apologies or listening to explanations.

“Goodnight, Mayor,” she said, with a look at his hands. She wondered if they’d be smooth against her skin, on the dip of her hip, or on—

She turned slowly, trying desperately not to think, and made her way up the steps of the Hotel Rexford with barely a stumble.

When she opened the doors, a man was there saying, “Welcome to Goodneighbor,” and Nora couldn’t stop her sharp bark of laughter if she tried.

———

The next morning was rough.

Nora hadn’t drank that much liquor in a long time (only about two hundred years or so, no biggie)—but she hadn’t had much privacy in a long time either. She spent most of the day in her underwear and a long-sleeved lounge shirt rolled up to her elbows, reading magazines and drinking every can of purified water in her pack while she lay sprawled across the bed, intermittently leaning over the bedside to vomit in a metal bucket on the floor. 

It was some time when the sun began to set that Nora finally got up, spread the junk in her pack across the floor, and set to work taking apart the bits that mattered. The sky darkened while she tinkered, but with busy hands the time time passed quickly. The radio on the dresser in the corner played quietly as it had throughout the day, Travis’ voice occasionally breaking through in a suave crackle. Nora always felt her face heat up when he mentioned “the vault dweller,” but it was a nice reminder, knowing that all that trouble she went through for people really did help.

Eventually Nora got dressed and headed out with a lighter pack. She figured Nick wouldn’t be back for a few days at least, and Nora _did_ have a job to do (from the Mayor, no less)—so she set out for the shop she’d noticed when she first entered the day before, stopped to get the details on that Drinkin’ Buddy from Rufus in the lobby.

Daisy ended up being a real doll. She told Nora all about the library she’d used to go frequent as a kid, and let her use the workbench in the back while she ran upstairs to grab her overdue book excitedly. Nora wasn’t sure if she’d be able to take on a horde of supermutants on her own—would probably have to wait for Nick to get back and see what he thought about it—but she still left Daisy’s shop with a smile, a lighter load, and a pocket full of caps. 

Nora paused outside. It was getting late already, but she knew that sitting in that hotel room the whole night would only make her crazy—knew that keeping busy would also keep her mind off Shaun and Kellogg and the Institute—for just a little while longer. 

So with a wary glance at the Old State House door, she made her way over to the Third Rail.

As Nora descended the steps, she watched (from the corner of her eye) for a red coat or tricorn hat, but her shoulders eased once she approached the bar. It was much emptier than the previous night, probably because there was no show. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oi, if you ain’t buyin’ beer, you ain’t buyin’.” Whitechapel Charlie had twisted ‘round to lock a camera-eye on her. His robotic arms worked at cleaning a glass, wiping the counter.

“All right,” Nora said easily, in a good enough mood for the old, cloudy drink and the bot’s bad manners. “Grab me a lager, I guess.”

Just as soon as she’d rummaged in her bag for the caps and placed them on the counter, Charlie started up again, voice modulator pitched a bit lower lower than before. “Listen, guv, I’ve got a proposition for ya…”

Nora wasn’t surprised. Most bartenders in the wasteland seemed to have a job for her. She leaned in.

“I’m listening.”

“I need a dirty girl to do some dirty, dirty work. Blood on the pavement. Bodies in the ground. That kind of thing. Interested?” He set the bottle of beer in front of her on the bar, and set to work on cleaning the next class, pocketing the caps on the counter.

Nora pulled back, grabbed her beer and hummed, curious. “I’ll need more in the way of details.”

“I’ve got a certain anonymous client who’s payin’ _top dollar_ for a cleanup job,” he started, impatient. The bot’s whirring sped up as he continued. “Three locations, all in town. Everyone inside. No witnesses. Job’s 200 caps, payment after it’s done. And don’t worry…I’ll know when it is.”

And with that cryptic remark, Charlie whirred away to serve a new customer, and the conversation ended. Nora grabbed her beer and found a seat at the end of the bar, away from Charlie’s babble. She drank slowly, and let herself settle into the quiet conversations. The Rail was a bit rough around the edges, worse for wear than Dimond City’s Dugout, but it suited her just right. The din and noise were a calming backdrop to the haze she was trying to sustain in her mind.

A warm clap on the back jolted Nora out of her half-assed meditation, and she spun ‘round quickly despite herself, palm ready on the hilt of her sheathed knife.

Her heart rate calmed when Hawthorne sidled up next to her, chuckling, and motioned to Charlie for a drink. “Nora, my girl, how are ya’?”

“Just tryin’ to survive,” she replied, taking a swig. She was surprised—Hawthorne travelled ‘round the Commonwealth, but she didn’t think to see him here. “What’re you doing all the way out in Goodneighbor, Hawthorne?”

He took a drink from the beer Charlie set down and answered, “Picked up an easy job back in Diamond City, needed to stretch my legs a bit. What about you? Certainly didn’t expect to see you in a seedy place like this.”

“Hey,” Nora said, grinning, “I can get down and dirty like the bad boys,” and Hawthorne laughed.

He got to telling her about the raiders he ran into on the way, how it turned into a right mess when they got the attention of some supermutants—had to book it and let them fight it out. Nora mentioned the job she’d picked up from Daisy, asked if he wanted to split the caps for a flush out.

Hawthorne just chuckled, shaking his head. He had to make it back to Diamond City by the next day, so he was only in town for the night to pick up a package and would head out in the morning. “But,” he said, “If you need an extra barrel I have heard of a guy. He’s a merc—set up shop in the back, there”—he tilted his head toward the open arch by the stairs—“MacCready. Heard he’s got a bad attitude and a wicked aim, but he’s dirt cheap, and kinda desperate. Tryin’ to get out of a bad deal or somethin’.”

Nora hummed and glanced over at the open doorway. Hawthorne's sell wasn't very promising…but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, to have an extra set of eyes while she wandered through the ruins of old nuked-out Boston. Besides, a hired gun would probably come in pretty handy with all the jobs she’d picked up by the time Nick got back. She could handle a bad attitude, as long as they could handle hers.

“Anyway, I gotta split—long day tomorrow,” Hawthorne said, wiping the final dregs of beer from his mouth, setting the bottle on the counter. And with a nod from Nora and a salute to Charlie, he left.

Nora watched him sprint up the steps as she finished the rest of her drink, then set her empty down next to Hawthorne's and got up from her stool. _Might as well check ‘em out_ , she thought. 

As she neared doorway, Nora could hear an argument in the tiled room, voices echoing into the hall. She managed to get into the open doorway of the small room and lean against the wall without disturbing their conversation.

Two men decked out in an oddly familiar green garb hovered over third, who was slouched deep into a velvety red wingback chair. A long rifle rested across his lap where a couple of bandoliers with what looked like 50 cals were strapped to his thigh. There was a bottle of dark liquor and a glass on the table next to him, and he swirled the drink ‘round his cup before tipping it back into his mouth. He laughed, “it’s been almost three months…don’t tell me you’re getting rusty.”

Nora propped herself against the archway to watch over the guys’ shoulders. The seated man’s eyes shone bright from under the dark set of his brow, but a menacing smirk curled up into the rough stubble that dusted his jaw when he said, darkly, “should we take this outside?”

The other two sputtered, said something about messages and jobs, and Nora was watching the way the merc rolled his eyes and slumped back into his seat, watched his white-knuckled grip where the fat of his palms flattened out against the barrel of his gun. His shoulders were thick under his duster; arms, neck, face—grimy with dirt.

Nora looked up, caught the spark from under the brim of his hat gleaning in his eyes and nearly flinched when his smirk deepened into a sneer, and he nearly spat, out the side of his mouth—“You done?”


End file.
